Of Scruples and Snogging
by S. Faith
Summary: What might have happened after Daniel and Mark's fight in the street, from an alternate point of view. Rated M for language.


**Of Scruples and Snogging**

© 2 Oct 2006, S. Faith

Standard disclaimers, blah blah blah.

I've had this idea floating around in my head for a little while, because she isn't unattractive and certainly isn't blind...

* * *

For a man who had once been described as a boring arse, she just couldn't stop looking at him. Aside from the unkind assessment of his stodginess, she'd only heard the barest description of his looks, which had intrigued her but didn't prepare her for the reality of him. He had a refined bearing, was comparatively towering and unexaggeratedly attractive; he filled out a suit very nicely and was blessed with thick, wavy chestnut-coloured hair and warm brown eyes. Christ, he was the living embodiment of the 'tall, dark and handsome' cliché, she told herself. He was a tree she sure wouldn't mind climbing. 

Granted, he was a little on the dull side, barely spoke three words, and almost polite to a fault, but she chalked it up to nerves. He clearly had a huge crush on Bridget, and it was evident she had been warming up to him too (despite, she thought, what they all knew he had done). But the burgeoning romance was annihilated by the girliest knock-down-drag-out fight she had ever witnessed between two men (him and Bridget's fuckwit ex), after which Bridget and her friends had gone back to the flat for more wine and commiseration.

Before she knew it, it was eleven o'clock on a Thursday and everyone had to work in the morning, so they all dispersed back into the cool November air. Except she didn't want to go home to her own cramped, lonely flat just yet, so she took a taxi to a pub a few blocks from her place.

Imagine her surprise to find the man himself there, hunched somewhat painfully over the bar, a tumbler of amber liquid in his hand.

"Hey," she said, taking the barstool next to his.

He sat up and turned to her, squinting his eyes in the dimness. Clearly, the drink in his hand had not been his first. "Do I—oh, yes. Sharon."

She smiled. "You can call me Shaz."

"No, I don't think I can," he said in a low tone.

"Are you all right?"

He looked rather scuffed up; she saw the spot of blood just next to his tie. He must have come here directly after the fight. "I've had better nights." He swirled the liquid in his glass around, watching it like it contained the answers to all of his questions, looking terribly forlorn.

"It was a pretty good night before _he_ showed up," Shaz offered.

He didn't reply right away, and when he did she could hardly hear him. "Yes. It was."

"She didn't let him in, you know."

He turned to her with a puzzled look on his face before the flicker of comprehension smoothed his features. "Doesn't matter. It was pretty clear how she feels about me."

She barely knew the man, but he really looked like he needed comforting, so despite her hesitation to do so, she reached out and put her hand on his forearm. He turned to look at her, was clearly having trouble focusing. "I'm sorry," she said, and she was, because if Bridget was going to let this man get away, she was obviously stark raving mad.

"Thanks." He put his hand atop hers, and in an instant warning sirens went off in her head. He was drunk, he was injured, and even if Bridget _was_ stark raving mad, she still had first claim. However, the way he was looking at her right now—like he was a kicked puppy and she was the first person to treat him kindly—gah. She would be no friend if she allowed herself to go down that road, knowing where it would inevitably lead to.

Then God, he did it; he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around her, muttering another grateful, slurred "Thanks" close in her ear. It was all she could do not to return the embrace, run her hands across the muscles of his shoulders, but she knew it would be a very short journey between an embrace in a bar and a highly regrettable one-night stand, with the lascivious thoughts she was having and his inability to control his impulses.

But oh, did he ever smell nice despite the drink, so she allowed herself to at least touch his upper arms, pat them in a sisterly sort of way. "It'll be okay." A meaningless platitude she knew she had no way of backing up, but she felt like she needed to say something to make him feel better.

He pulled away from her, and she felt a huge relief that she was out of that awkward position, until, unfortunately, lack of inhibitions reared its head again:

His mouth was suddenly covering hers, and boy, even in his debilitated state, could that man _kiss_. She felt like she was melting, like she could have floated away, would have followed him willingly to his place or hers, and done all manner of indecent things with (and to) him. But the sirens sounded louder than ever and she regained control of herself and the situation.

"Whoa," she sputtered, pushing him away a little harder than she intended to. "I don't think you know what you're doing." Technically he knew what he was doing; that was undeniable, she thought, her cheek still pleasantly stinging from his stubble.

He leaned heavily on the bar, covered his face with his hand. "Sorry," he said quietly after a beat.

She didn't think it was possible for him to appear more pathetic, but he did. "Really, it's okay." She looked at him until he took his hand away to look at her again. As he reached for the last of his scotch, she stopped him. "I think you've had enough."

He nodded, his head sinking. "I don't usually do this." She wasn't sure if he meant drinking until he was stupid or shoving his tongue randomly down the throats of women in bars, but it didn't matter. She didn't know him all that well, but honestly she couldn't picture this as something he did, ever.

"I'll get you a taxi." She waved her hand at the bartender, mouthed the word 'taxi'. Turning back to him, he asked, "Where do you live?"

"In an ivory tower," he murmured. "Glass walls and all."

It took another five minutes, until the taxi arrived, for him to give up his actual address. Holland Park. Swanky. She stood and she helped him to his feet as best as a woman of her height could, his arm about her shoulders, her arm around his waist.

As she settled him into the rear seat, he looked up to her with—fuck, those _eyes_, so luminous and sad—and said once more, "Thank you." She wished for a world where she could have knocked him flat and shagged him sideways, but she couldn't get over the notion that a.) he was Bridget's and b.) she was Bridget's best friend joint with Jude.

"Hey. No problem." She gave the taxi driver the address she'd managed to wrangle out of him and a twenty pound note, and watched as it drove away from the kerb.

Damn conscience.

—_two months later—_

"Sharon."

After a decidedly better meal than the last one Bridget had cooked for her friends, Shaz stood out on Bridget's balcony, smoking a fag and watching the city lights, turning only when she heard her name and the door to the balcony closing.

"Hey, Mark." She smiled. Handsome as ever (possibly more so now due to sheer bliss), not nearly as taciturn as when they'd first met… and most definitely Bridget's now.

"I just wanted to say—I mean, I never properly thanked you for—well. You know." He had a nearly empty glass of wine in his hand, looked at it, and smiled at the irony, setting it on the flat part of the ledge.

She waved her hand dismissively.

He smiled, the moonlight accenting the slight dimple in his cheek. "I probably would have ended up on the floor of the bar in a puddle of my own sick. Not the thing a man in my profession wants happening. I truly appreciate it."

"It was really nothing." She took another drag, was silent for a few more minutes. "Did you ever tell—"

He shook his head; she trailed off. He glanced to the door. "I didn't figure she needed to know you came to my rescue after an already sad and pathetic night."

"What about… you know… the other thing?"

He looked enormously puzzled. "The 'other thing'?"

Christ alive, did he really not remember? Time to backpedal. She improvised: "You, um, hugged me."

He went as white as a sheet. "Sharon. I had no idea. Forgive me."

Fuck, if he blanched at the thought of a _hug_…

"Mark? It's all right. You were pissed off your arse. Now forget it."

He nodded. His colour returned and he smiled again, definitely more at ease. "Thanks."

At just that moment, the door opened slightly and Bridget poked her head out through the opening. "What's going on out here?" she asked playfully as she gingerly stepped through, her gaze on her new boyfriend. "Sneaking off for secret snogs with other women, are we?"

Shaz knew rationally there was no way Bridget could possibly know (she hadn't told a soul, not even Jude or Tom), but it didn't stop her stomach from dropping to her feet. She took another drag to hide her forced smile. However, Shaz could have very well lit her hair on fire and they wouldn't have noticed, because he only had eyes for Bridget, and she, only for him. "Not on your life," he replied huskily, drawing her to him, kissing her.

Shaz felt the slightest twang of jealousy. Naturally she was happy that Bridget had come to her senses, glad that Mark had shown up the night of their imminent departure for a weekend in Paris. Even still, she couldn't remember a better snog in all her life.

The longer they kissed there in front of her, the more awkward she felt, even more so than usual considering she'd just been contemplating that night in the bar. Shaz said, "Um, I'm gonna head back inside. Cold out here and all." She was not at all sure they heard her, anyway. She entered the warmth of the flat, took a seat on the sofa nearest to the fireplace, listened to Jude and Tom bicker over their card game, and gazed into the mesmerising flames with her reclaimed glass of chardonnay.

She decided that discretion was the better part of valour, not telling him about the kiss. It would serve no purpose other than throw a wrench into their brand-new relationship, and while a pettier, meaner person might have used the knowledge to get a man like Mark for herself, Shaz was not that heartless.

Once again she thought of him, and damned her conscience.

She felt a hand on top of her head, and looked up to see Bridget smiling down at her. "Hey, are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Bridge," she said lightly.

Bridget sat down beside Shaz, put an arm around her shoulders, and looked the kitchen, where Mark was pouring wine with his back to the living room. "He really is _very_…" Words failed her and she grinned like a fool, her eyes still upon him.

"He is," Shaz said, with a bittersweet smile. Quietly she added, "So don't fuck it up."

Bridget laughed and thwapped her on the back of the head gently. "Thank you for your very sage advice. I owe you one."

More than you'll ever know, thought Shaz.

_The end._

(n.b. – Doesn't Mark seem like a scotch man to you?)


End file.
